


you'll fake it if you have to

by allerene



Category: Young Justice (Cartoon)
Genre: Dissociation, Explicit Language, F/M, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, basically the first couple scenes artemis is just constantly dissociating, its not THAT violent but there is one scene with some expressive language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-02
Updated: 2015-07-02
Packaged: 2018-06-08 22:04:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6875458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allerene/pseuds/allerene
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>the process of grief and the path to acceptance in light of the loss of a loved one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	you'll fake it if you have to

**Author's Note:**

> title comes from this song: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=B0sy7y54XAE
> 
> the song also sets the tone a little bit (at least towards the end)
> 
> i wrote this a couple months ago; it's my first fic since 2012 (yikes). enjoy!

1

“...It’s going to be a very difficult process, I’m sure you know. Believe me, no one's going to expect you to return to where you were before. Hell, no one will even expect you to return to the team. You will need time, and that’s okay.” Beat. “...And you’ve experienced loss before, like all of us. Do me a favor: try to remember how you coped last time. If that worked for you, see if you can’t get something out of that. If not, try something new. Spend a little time with your team, with your mom… I’m sure Rudy and Mary would welcome you with open arms.” Beat. “Just… don’t forget that I’m always here, and I can always talk. That’s my job, right?”

You don’t return the tight-lipped smile that Dinah ekes out in an attempt to provoke a response. You don’t even meet her tired gaze, instead focusing on her scarred fingers, laced together securely and resting on her desk. After another moment of uncomfortable silence, she gives the slightest of sighs, and you know she’s exhausted, too. Everyone is. You try to focus on that, and not let your mind slip too far. 

But you are numb, and tired, and you don’t have the strength for focus. 

“Thanks,” you mutter, rising stiffly from your chair and still refusing to meet Dinah’s eyes.

“It’s what I’m here for, Artemis,” she says sympathetically. Her voice is tired. She is tired. You hold onto that. 

“We’ll… we’ll talk later.” It’s an empty promise, you think, hugging yourself and shuffling out of the office.

Emptiness has been your most familiar sensation for the past five days. None of this has felt real. You’ve been here, in the Watchtower, since the 20th, since standing alone and breaking the news to Rudy and Mary. That had almost destroyed you.

At the memorial, you stand between Zatanna and Dick, the former rubbing soothing circles into your soldier throughout the duration of the ceremony, the latter constantly muttering to himself and to you, “Ceased is the opposite of deceased. Ceased is the opposite of deceased.” It’s his mantra, and you don’t know what it means, and you’re pretty sure he doesn’t, either. But it’s something to take presence, something to distract, and in its own way, the mantra becomes an anchor for the both of you.

Because none of this-- none of this-- feels real. 

You’ve been spending more time trying to sleep, holding on to the faintest hope that this is all a lucid, terrible nightmare. 

It’s becoming increasingly obvious that you’re wrong, but there’s no way in hell you’re admitting that. You’re never wrong. If you were wrong, he’d appear, and tease you, like he always does, infectious smile morphing the freckles on his nose and cheeks into new constellations, laughing green eyes twinkling in mirth and utter adoration. 

As you walk away from Dinah’s office and towards the bunk you’ve been inhabiting, the image of his grinning, teasing face makes a lump in your throat swell.

No, you berate yourself. This isn’t real.

You don’t know how much longer you can keep this lie going.

 

2

On the eighth day, you leave the Watchtower.

As you enter in the coordinates to the zeta tube, your fingers briefly ghost over the pattern that would take you back to your apartment in Palo Alto. Back to cold air and an empty bed. You take yourself to Gotham instead.

Your fault.

You walk the streets in your civvies, hood pulled over your head to hide your eyes from passersby. Unevenly spaced streetlights cast a periodic orange glow over the world, fuzzing the edges of the harsh, dark shapes of the city. 

Could’ve stopped him.

You’re not trying to, but you end up at your mother’s apartment building, waiting to be buzzed up. You pick at your cuticles, feeling like an unstable ball of anxiety and some other, gut-wrenching feeling. Quickly, you’re gliding up the stairs, hand brushing against the railing like you’re going to lose balance at any given moment.

Could’ve made him come back.

You don’t know why, because this used to be your home, too, but you’re knocking on the door. Your mother was waiting by the door, you know because it's opened in a second, and she's there in her wheelchair, elegant face taut with worry, eyes brimming with an emotion you're not sure you fully comprehend. 

"Artemis. Người thân yêu. Come inside." She takes you by the arm and and leads you into the familiar bare-bones apartment. She's holding onto you like she never wants to let go, but you wriggle your way out of her grasp and shuffle towards the kitchen. You don't want her to see how bad you're shaking. 

"I'll make tea," you hear yourself saying. 

"Artemis." Her voice is strained. You fill the old, cherry red kettle and place it on the gas stove.

Could'vestoppedhimcould'vestoppedhim.

"Artemis." You pull two chipped, old mugs down and rifle around the cabinet where you know she keeps the chai. Your heart rate is increasing. You swallow. 

Yourfaultyourfaultyourfaultyourfault.

"Artemis Lian, look at me!" she snaps, and you balk. Her voice is thick with emotion, like you've never heard it, and you hunch over the mugs, gripping the counter's edge with white knuckles.

"Please," she begs, raw-voiced. You make a choking sound. Eyes on the ground, you pull yourself away from the counter and walk slowly toward her. You can’t look at her face, but she’s shaking as she takes your hands in hers.

“You were dead.” Her voice is barely a whisper, and you choke back a painful sob. “For months, I thought…” You are shaking, and she’s crying silently.

“And eight days ago, do you know who came to my door? Not the Justice League. Not you. Your father--” she breaks off into a sob, and you tense, but she quickly regains a vague semblance of composure, “-- your father came to tell me that you had faked your death to infiltrate the Light, and that-- that Wallace--”

Whatever she says is too much, and you break down into ugly, wounded sobs. You sink to the floor, pressing your face into her knees as you bawl.

“He sacrificed himself, mom-- that-- that stupid asshole--” you force out in between sobs that wrack your entire body. She pushes your hood back and strokes your hair, her tears silent. “...and I probably could’ve-- could’ve stopped him-- he’s dead, mom, he’s dead--”

“Anh yêu em, you’re alive, Artemis,” she whispers through tears, trying to comfort you, but all it does is force another wretched sob out of you.

“But he isn’t,” you insist. “It’s-- it’s not fair-- it’s not fucking fair--”

But she hushes you, still stroking your hair, and you two stay huddled together, crying your eyes dry, even as your sobs turn to hiccups, even as the shrill whistle of the kettle pierces the atmosphere.

 

3

It’s two weeks after his death when you finally put your costume back on. 

It’s July fourth, and the Team is gathered in the Watchtower. You dare yourself to go to the memorial garden, forcing down the lump in your throat and digging your nails into your palms when you see the wry smirk of his hologram. You blanch for a second when you think you see his yellow-and-crimson form, but the shock of hair on his head is auburn, not obnoxiously orange, and your heart falls to your stomach.

You force out something cheerful, something to placate Bart as he nervously explains his adoption of Wally’s mantle. You bite down on the inside of your cheek until you draw blood in an attempt to stop yourself from acting on the building rage in your stomach, and breathe a sigh of relief when Bart deflects the conversation to the subject of your costume.

“Artemis was Wally’s partner,” you say plainly, and it’s not a lie. You’re Tigress now-- you have to be. Every time you tried to put on your old green costume after the twentieth, it itched and pulled, and you felt like a fraud. It was in a box now, in the back of a closet in your mom’s apartment-- if she hadn’t taken it, you would’ve thrown it out. If Bart has any objections, he doesn’t make them known.

Kaldur calls everyone together, runs his spiel, and gives them their assignments. You are leading Beta Squad, with Karen, Mal, and-- great-- Bart. You’re supposed to be investigating a LexCorp facility, because for whatever reason, Luthor’s trying to sell more of the Reach’s bizarre soft drink. It’s a reconnaissance mission only, and for some reason, that disappoints you.

“So, stickin’ with Tigress?” Karen inquires, not unkindly, as you enter the transport code into the zeta tube’s interface. The intel points to an underground facility in Metropolis, and that’s where you’re headed.

“Yep,” you reply simply. In an effort to lighten the tension, you buffer it with a joke. “What, don’t I look good in orange?” Karen’s light chuckle is drowned out by the computer’s voice as you don your mask and step into the tube.

“Recognize. Tigress. B-zero-seven.”

The facility ends up being a heavily-guarded factory. Your team gets through the entrance easily enough-- Bart takes out the cameras, Mal knocks out the few guards on patrol, and the four of you infiltrate the building seamlessly. Once inside the main room, a giant warehouse space filled with machinery pumping away, the squad disperses and you deliver instructions via radio (M’gann’s too far away to have established a psychic link). 

“Bumblebee, get to the monitors on the second level and secure us whatever files on the drink you can find. Kid Flash,” (you stutter slightly when you say Bart’s new codename) “get us a sample for the labs. Guardian, you and me are on watch.” Everyone rogers, and you do your best to tail Bart as he whizzes towards the giant vats of liquid on the far side of the factory. You don’t ready any weapons, instead crossing the factory floor by hopping from machine to machine bare-handed. On the off chance that you’re noticed by a security guard, they are dispatched by a swift knee to the face. You don’t think about how instead of making you cringe, the sound of nose crunching under kneecap is immensely satisfying. You definitely don’t think about how much you want to hear more of that sound. 

You’re perched nearby, watching Bart’s back as he carefully extracts several test tubes of the brightly-colored liquid from an open vat. He’s taking his sweet time. 

“Clear on your end?” you say into the radio, and Mal’s baritone echoes back. 

“Clear.”

You look back at Bart, all your exits, and you’re just about to tell him to wrap it up, we’ve gotta go, when something catches your eye. Edging in from behind a conveyer belt, a guard has his gun trained on the back of Bart’s head. 

No.

He’s coming in close-- Bart hasn’t noticed-- and suddenly, something in your head snaps, and your vision is bathed in red. You leap from your perch with an honest-to-God snarl, (Bart later, with a nervous laugh, tells you it’s like you were an actual tiger) and barrel the guard into the ground, sending his gun flying. Bart whirls around, and you vaguely recognize him telling you he’s got the samples, let’s go-- but that’s not enough for you. Because this guard wanted to kill him.

You land hit after hit on the guard’s face, bone cracks, skin splits, blood splatters. You leap to your feet, flinging the guard into the side of the steel vat. You unsheath your blowpipe, but instead of using it for its intended purpose, you swing it into the guard’s side with tremendous force. Ribs break. He’s helpless, and you know it, but he tried to kill your teammate, and that’s not fucking allowed. You don’t stop the barrage of attacks on the uniformed man until you feel giant arms grabbing you, holding you back, and you curse and spit and fight against them, because no one can ever kill another one of your teammates again, but you’re being dragged back, flung over a shoulder, and your face slams into something cold and metal and you’re out.

 

4

At three in the morning on July eighteenth, you go to the address in Star City that your mother gave you, equipped with a duffel bag and a plan. 

On any other day, the sight that greets you after you knock on the door would make you laugh: Roy Harper, in boxers, a t-shirt, and scruff, with a sleeping, auburn-haired baby in one arm. You don’t know when he and your sister moved in together, but knowing Jade, it must’ve been on her terms.

“Is Jade home?” you ask plainly. You’re in your civvies, dark sunglasses hiding an ugly bruise over your right eye. Roy frowns at you.

“What, no ‘How are you doing, brother-in-law? How’s your infant child and her life? Let me explain to you what I’m doing at your home at the asscrack of dawn!’” He imitates your voice sarcastically, but stops when you don’t react. He sighs, steps back, and beckons you into the apartment with a jerk of his head.

It’s a surprise to you, how quickly your sister seems to have started a normal life. You know both her and Roy still partake in aspects of their masked lives, but the tastefully decorated apartment feels like an actual home. You look around the living room, distracted, until Roy clears his throat and brandishes a baby in your face. 

“Hold your niece,” he says, and you comply, but not without hesitation. He walks off, presumably to fetch your sister.

You look down at the sleeping face of Lian Harper-Nguyen, her tiny head swathed in auburn fuzz. Most of you wants to kick your sister for naming her actual child after you, but deep down, at least a small part of you is touched. 

She coos, and you soften. She wriggles in her sleep, and for a moment you worry she’s going to wake, but she sighs and settles. You take your glasses off for a clearer look at her serene face.

“Lian,” you murmur, the ghost of a smile quirking the corners of your mouth up.

“Well, look who’s alive. I was under the impression that you’d gone off the grid-- but you know, if you wanna babysit, the job’s yours, sis,” a silky voice says mockingly. Your head snaps up, and Jade’s standing on the other side of the room in all her pajama-clad glory. She sees your eye, and her brow knits in uncharacteristic concern.

“Shit. That’s a shiner if I’ve ever seen one.”

She walks up to you, arms crossed. “Who did it?”

“Doesn’t matter,” you say, looking away from her.

She frowns, and moves to sit on the couch, patting the space next to her. You oblige, setting down your duffel bag next to you.

“Chị khỏe không?” Her voice is soft. 

“Like I said. Doesn’t matter.” You focus your attention on the baby in your arms. All three of you are silent for a minute, until Lian coos again. A smile breaks on Jade’s elegant face (so like your mother’s), and she chuckles softly. 

“So, sister dearest. What’s up?”

You expel a breath, shifting carefully so as not to wake your niece. 

“I need… a favor. Or two,” you say carefully. Jade nods. “I need your help finding someone. Ra’s al Ghul. I know you worked with him in the Light, and I know he survived the Summit last month.” Jade frowns.

“What do you need that crusty old bastard for?” she leans against the back of the couch, not breaking eye contact. 

“Stuff. I dunno. Doesn’t matter. He’s evil,” you deflect poorly. 

“Well, arguably, so am I,” Jade drawls with a smirk. “But I like to know why I’m on a mission. So spill, em gai.” You say nothing, staring at Lian. You sigh, close your eyes, and roll your shoulders back.

“He’s the… the only lead I have on getting Wally back.” Your tone grows softer as you continue to speak, and you suddenly feel very, very vulnerable. You don’t look at your sister, but you hear her fidget and sigh heavily.

“Artemis. Honey… I know you’re… hurting,” she begins.

“Wally is dead,” you spit out. 

“...because your boyfriend is dead. Listen, I miss the ginger disaster too, but, you don’t want to mess with this kind of business. Ra’s al Ghul brought himself back from the dead, and now he’s even nuttier than before. You don’t want that kind of thing for your red-haired Romeo. I mean, I-- they didn’t even recover a body, em gai. Please, don’t--”

“Just shut up,” you hiss, eyes clenched tight. “You don’t understand. I would give anything-- anything in the world-- to have him back. And if Ra’s al Ghul can promise that-- if anyone can promise that, then that’s a chance I will damn well take.”

“Sis, you’re grieving. And Ra’s al Ghul’s full of bullshit-- if he does get your boy-toy back, you know it’s not going to be how you want him-- at all.” Jade’s words grow more and more urgent. “There’s no way you’re ever getting him back. Not now, not ever. At least, not before you see the pearly gates. Artemis, please, once and for all, accept it-- Wally is dead.”

And that’s what breaks you.

You burst into tears, crying pitifully over the baby, until said baby awakens with cries of her own. The baby’s mother envelops the both of you in her arms, and you lean into her embrace. 

“I-- miss-- him,” you hiccup pathetically, and your sister rubs your back sympathetically like she hasn’t since you were tiny.

“I know,” she murmurs into your hair, as you and Lian continue to wail. “I know, em gai.” The three of you stay like that until you dissolve into sniffles, and Lian returns to her gentle sleep.

“Why didn’t you ask you little team to help you out?” Jade says suddenly, pulling back and looking at you with narrowed eyes. “Or the Justice League? Why ask me?”

“Oh. Um…” You scrub at your nose with your sleeve and sniff. “...I’m on suspension. Indefinite suspension. We were on a mission, and I-- I think I killed someone.” 

Jade’s quiet for a moment, and you almost start to panic, but then a smile breaks her face-- “That’s reassuring. My daughter, in the arms of a possible killer.” You laugh despite yourself.

“Of course, because her parents are the paragons of goodwill and pacifism.” This gets a soft snort out of your sister.

“When did they cut you?”

“Two weeks ago.”

“What’ve you been doing?”

“Searching. Getting the shit beat out of me,” you gesture to your eye, “the usual.”

“Oh, em gai.” Jade shakes her head sadly. You look down at Lian. The air is thick with swirling emotions, and the three of you sit in the stew for a while, watching the first grey morning light softly illuminate the curtains. Roy snores from the next room over. 

“What was the second favor?”

“Huh?”

“You said you needed two favors.”

“Ah.” You chew your lip. “I need a place to crash.” Jade is silent for a little too long, and for a second you wonder if you should just leave right now, but then she bursts into laughter.

“Hah! Jesus, em gai, maybe you should have started with that one. Yes, you can sleep on my couch.” You sigh in relief. “Why, something up with mom?”

“She’s gonna try and make me talk to the team again if I stay with her too long.” You sister doesn’t say anything, just nods, her arm resting on your shoulder, her daughter nestled in the crook of your arm. The three of you fall asleep like that as the sun rises, in a strange amalgam of sadness, comfort, and love.

 

5

You thought you could, but you couldn’t.

On the thirty-first of July, you’re sitting at a bar.

It’s a shitty bar, with shitty alcohol. But, luckily, not so shitty that it’s not getting you at least a little buzzed. 

You told yourself this wouldn’t happen-- you wouldn’t be reduced to a state of such utter depression that you were getting drunk to forget. You told yourself you’d be responsible-- work through this shit for-- you don’t know, Wally’s sake. But here you are.

Oh, God, you think to yourself, because now Wally’s occupying your mind again, and even in your state of growing inebriation, his presence brings forth a twisted gut, a lump in your throat, and shaking hands.

Through gritted teeth, you ask the bartender for a shot of something strong, and she places a glass of some transparent liquid in front of you, which you knock back in seconds. You slam the glass down so hard that it cracks, and the bartender shoots you a dirty look. You run a hand through your hair, out of its usual ponytail. You’ve been staying with Roy and Jade the past couple of days, intermittently babysitting and being Tigress in Star City (all the while avoiding getting caught by Green Arrow, because that’s a conversation you’ll be having in hell). They’ve been good enough distractions, but it’s unbelievable, the immediateness with which your mood can swing.

You’ve probably had a whole fifth of whiskey when a man drops onto the stool next to you.

“Sorry, buddy, but I’m on the single train to Lonersville tonight, and I intend to keep it that way,” you slur, not looking up.

“That’s too bad. I was going to get you hammered, but I see you have that covered.” You freeze.

Motherfucker.

“And what the fuck,” you grind out, suddenly significantly more sober, “are you doing here, Dick?” You look up at the face of one Richard Grayson, and you’re secretly pleased to see that he’s worse for wear. He’s in his civvies, he’s bedraggled, and the circles under his eyes are an ugly purple. 

“I don’t know if that was s’posed to be my name or an insult, but you’re hardly one to be heading accusatory questions.”

“Shut the fuck up,” you spit. “You left--”

“You killed a guy,” he shrugs. “Guess we’re all dealing with this differently.”

“Shut the fuck up.” You lean back, eyes closed in frustration. 

“What are you doing in Star City?”

“You wouldn’t ask if you didn’t already know.”

“Mmhm.” The two of you sit in tense silence, until Dick orders something fruity in a glass with a stem and you catch the bartender making eyes at him.

“Don’t hit that, sister. This dickweed abandons his friends when he gets sad,” you say loudly. Dick shushes you and mutters a quick apology to the bartender. 

“Art, Wally wouldn’t want you to be--” You rear on him, shoving a finger in his face.

“Oh, no. You don’t get to fucking talk about what he wouldn’t fucking want--”

“Artemis, he was my best friend. Don’t think for a second that you’re the only one grieving here! You think that you’re the only one who cares because you’ve stopped taking care of yourself. I mean, look at you, goddamnit! You’ve been chasing after every magic user you can for the past month, you haven’t been home since the Summit over a month ago, and now you’re drunk in a bar, falling all over yourself like the mess you are! Artemis, what,” he pauses to take a breath, “what do you think you’re even doing?”

Your mouth opens and closes a few times in a struggle to conjure up some witty retort. When you can’t think of anything, you feel yourself begin to crumple, and you stand up, swaying slightly.

“Artem--”

“No.” Your voice is thick with emotion, and, shaking your head, you storm out of the bar and into the cool night air, trying to ignore the tear trickling down your cheek.

“Artemis!” Dick calls after you, and you take off running down the street, almost bulldozing a few passersby. 

“Artemis!”

You lose the battle under the flickering glow of a dying streetlamp, and crouch into a ball as you begin to sob. Dick’s footsteps come to a halt next to you, and he kneels down to your level. Wordlessly, he wraps his arm around you, and though you later don’t know if it was just your inebriated mind playing tricks on you, he starts to cry. 

This time is different for you. Whenever you’ve cried before today, it’s been out of frustrated desperation, twisted hope. This time, it’s different. It’s exhaustion and surrender. It’s your last middle finger to the world as you force yourself to admit that Wally West is dead, and there’s nothing in the fucking universe that will bring him back to you.

You’re done fighting.

 

6

“You’re sure you don’t need any help, dear? We’re in the area, we can stop by.”

“No, that’s okay,” you say nonchalantly into your phone. “I’ve got this.”

“Well, alright. We’re here if you need us. Give Lian our love,” the tinny voice responds uncertainly.

“Of course. Bye, Mary,” you say.

“Talk to you later, dear,” she coos, and you hang up, sigh deeply, and open your car door. 

It’s September eighth, and you’re stepping out onto the sidewalk by your old house in Palo Alto. You didn’t register for the Fall 2016 semester at Stanford. Instead, you transferred your credits to a small, inner-city college in Gotham, and registered there. Now, you’re back in California to move out. 

You walk to the front door slowly, taking careful note of how the lawn has been taken care of by the house sitter that you didn’t know Dick had hired on your behalf three days after Wally died. You try not to think to hard on that. You and Dick still aren’t really talking regularly. For a brief moment, you consider knocking. But it’s your house, you remind yourself determinedly, and you push open the front door without a second thought.

Immediately, you are assailed by a large, enthusiastic, tan pitbull. Brucely bowls you to the ground and covers you in slobber, and you can’t help the grin that splits your face as you pick yourself up and rub his ears. 

“Hey, big guy,” you say with a laugh, and he pushes his nose in your hand as an encouragement to continue petting him.

“Oh gosh, I’m so sorry! I wasn’t paying attention, and he just knocked you right over!” a voice says, and you look up to see a short, brunette woman walking into the room.

“It’s okay, he’s just happy to see me,” you say casually.

“Right. Sorry, hi, you must be Artemis, huh?” She extends a hand cheerfully, and you accept it. “I’m Stephanie, the house sitter. I was just getting ready to take off. Keys are on the counter, everything should be where you left it!”

“Thanks, Stephanie,” is all you think to say, one hand still on Brucely’s head.

“Goodbye, Brucely, bye Artemis!” she says with a little wave, and like that, she’s out the door. You look around the living room, tidy and achingly familiar, and another little piece of your heart feels like it’s breaking off. You look back down at your dog, who you haven’t seen in months. He wags his tail hopefully.

“I missed you, buddy,” you say, and it’s true. You and Wally adopted him the day after you moved in together. Wally had had his sights set on Brucely for months beforehand, visiting him at the shelter almost daily. Thinking about it hurts, a lot, and you kneel down, scratching the big dog behind the ears.

“Wally’s not coming back, but he loved you a lot. He would’ve want you to know that,” you tell the dog gently, knowing full well he doesn’t understand a word you’re saying. He yawns, and whines, and you laugh despite yourself. You hope your new place in Gotham allows pets. (Even if it doesn’t, there’s no way in hell you’re giving up Brucely now.)

“We’ve got a lot of work to do, huh?”

As it turns out, that’s an understatement. You spend the next week dividing your time between boxing up all your old stuff and giving Brucely the attention and love he deserves. The boxes and furniture you’re willing to take all go in your car, and everything else gets donated. You actually manage to make good time, considering the amount of junk you two amassed over the past few years. Wally is-- was-- a total pack rat.

The one place you avoid is the bedroom. You sleep on the couch and wear the clothes you brought with you. You know in your heart that it’s only going to be a detriment if you don’t get over yourself and take care of it, but you’ll be damned if you don’t stare at the door for at least a half hour everyday, thinking about how important that space used to be to the two of you. It hurts like a bitch.

As in every situation that you’ve been in the past few months, you eventually give up. You open the door, Brucely wagging his tail behind you. As you’re taking in the familiarity of the light blue walls, the bright daylight shining through the sheer curtains, the portraits on the dresser of you two, Brucely, and your friends, the dog shoots past you and hops up on the bed excitedly.

“Down, boy,” you say with a laugh. He hops off, albeit reluctantly. You try not to look too hard at the bed, instead focusing on swallowing down the lump in your throat. The last time you were here had been the night of the nineteenth-- the Light had been defeated, the Reach were leaving, and you and Wally could be together again like you hadn’t in months. 

Of course, the next morning, you had to suit up again, and then everything changed.

You spend the day boxing up old clothes and photos. You decide you’ll give most of Wally’s stuff to his parents, Mary and Rudy, who are staying with relatives in nearby San Francisco because they wanted to “make sure you’d be okay, dear.” You don’t know if there’s anything you can bring yourself to keep.

You’re going through his sock drawer (which you ultimately decide to dump, because he accidentally burned through a pair a week, anyways) when you find an unmarked old shoebox. Hesitant, you sit on the bed with it in your lap, and gently remove the lid. Almost immediately, you wish you hadn’t, because the box is filled with scrawled-on magazine clippings, little scraps of paper with notes written on them, and a CD. You recognize the paper scraps instantly-- notes you and Wally had passed back and forth in every class and study hall you ever had together. His fast and sloppy scrawl next to your neat and thought-out one, making jokes about everything from their professors to Hawkman’s helmet, complaining about what a dick Dick was being, and the occasional gooey love note that would result in blushing and giggles. 

The magazine clippings are different-- it takes you a second, and part of you wants to laugh, part of you wants to cry, and part of you wants to melt into a puddle. They’re wedding ideas-- venues and decorating tips, with notes scrawled in Sharpie like “Artemis would love this place,” and “Mom and dad wouldn’t be able to come-- good or bad?” It looked like he’d had his sights set on a beach in Chile. He had thought about you two eloping (“I could run us there and we’d never have to come back”) but seemed to have still wanted a fairytale wedding, which makes your heart just about melt. 

You two had talked about getting married-- a lot. You were planning on waiting until after graduation, when the timing was right. He had never told you when he was planning on proposing, instead teasing you by kneeling down in front of you in public, only to tie his shoe instead, and promptly earn a smack upside the head, courtesy of yourself.

Having seen the contents of the box for the most part, you pick up the final item-- the CD. It’s labeled “Wedding Mix-- Ver. XII” and has a cheesy drawing of two stick figures holding hands (one with freckles, one with a ponytail, both smiling) on the cover. You curl your toes and chew your lip, but ultimately, you find yourself putting the CD in the stereo that rests on the dresser and pressing play. 

It’s all gooey old love songs from the fifties and sixties, and, though heavy-hearted, you laugh, and make Brucely dance along with you to the Beach Boys and the Supremes. Louis Armstrong’s soulful rendition of La Vie En Rose is playing out when the audio shifts, and suddenly your knees are weak and every feeling you’ve felt over the past three months comes rushing back at once.

“Hey babe! You found my CD, obviously, and if it hasn’t happened already, I’m about to receive the asskicking of a lifetime. If that hasn’t happened yet, then I just want to let you know that this last song is totally what I would’ve picked as our first song, had my ass not been kicked into another plane of existence. Love you, babe!” It’s over as soon as it started, and you’re too shocked to speak, sinking down onto the foot of the bed. The song starts-- Song About the Moon by Simon and Garfunkel, he had played it the first night at their new place, the asshole-- and you’re crying. 

It doesn’t take you a second to realize you’re not even crying because you’re sad-- oddly enough, you’re smiling through your gasps, and a docile Brucely hops onto the bed next to you and gently licks your tear stained cheek. You pull the dog into your arms, burying your face in his flank, while Paul Simon’s voice sings, “The laughing boy, laughed so hard/ He fell down from his place/ Laughing girl, she laughed so hard/ Tears rolled down her face.”

Wally’s gone. Wally’s not coming back. But that’s okay, you think, because he was here. He was here, with you. He lived, you lived with him.

It was good. 

And it will be okay.


End file.
